


Maybe they're hiring at Wok n' Roll

by empty_marrow



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 18:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2280933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/empty_marrow/pseuds/empty_marrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dollhouse:  apparently Rossum LA is all about boredom, caffeination, and an occasionally-cute boss with a Boba fetish.  Really, Ivy thought she'd be getting more use from that MIT degree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe they're hiring at Wok n' Roll

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serialbathera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serialbathera/gifts).



> Written for serialbathera as part of the Low-Key Summer Exchange. I hope you enjoy, Amanda!

Apparently, Ivy sucks at foam and vanilla crystals.

This wasn’t a deficit that particularly bothered her before, since she kind of figured that graduating third in her class at MIT with a dual masters in computer science and engineering meant she’d actually be expected to, you know, _do_ science and engineering when they hired her at Rossum. It’s not even like LA isn’t overrun by competing Starbucks on every corner -- she’s pretty sure she’s seen Boyd sneaking in a caramel macchiato or two when he drops Echo off to get one of her treatments, although granted that might be because they’re on their way back from one of her weirder assignments and he needs the caffeine and sugar to distract himself from the fact that she’s half-naked and in sky-high dominatrix boots. Ivy’s seen Echo’s appointment book for the rest of the month, and she figures Boyd will be up two pants sizes by Christmas.

The point being that, seriously, there are _alternatives_ available to Topher Brink. Ivy is fluent in multiple programming languages and already has a dozen first-author publications in the most prominent trade journals and was hand-picked by Rossum to come to their LA office –

“Ivy, I can literally _feel_ myself dying on a cellular level while I’m waiting for that cappuccino.”

\--and somehow she stepped into an alternate universe where she’s hanging out in the employee kitchen, nary a computer in sight, playing the part of high-paid barista to a young, brilliant, intensely annoying scientist with questionable taste in brewed beverages. Who is consistently disappointed with the way she applies the sprinkles to the foam, and is it even appropriate for cappuccino to be combined with vanilla?

Oh, fuck her life, now she’s _thinking_ like a barista.

“Here it is, Topher. Extra vanilla, as loudly demanded.” She hands him the steaming mug, and no, she’s not hoping it’s hot enough to burn his vocal cords shut for a couple of hours.

“Oh, thank god, _finally_. Lack of caffeination and a deadline on a trapeze-artist imprint is a bad combination.” Topher settles back in his chair, and Ivy takes the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at the lines of code running across the screen in front of him. “I’m pretty sure DeWitt would be pissed if Victor tries for the triple-somersault and lands on his – oh my god, oh my _god_! Ivy, what did you _do_?”

“I – what? Nothing – what?”

Topher’s clutching his chest and his eyes are bugging out of his head, and Ivy would find this almost comical if she weren’t concerned that she was watching her boss have a heart attack in front of her. Or wondering if someone had mixed meth into the vanilla crystals, because Dominick would totally take that kind of revenge for Topher’s whoopee-cushion joke at yesterday’s staff meeting.

“The mug, Ivy, the mug,” Topher wheezes, gesturing with the item in question and sending little flecks of foam scattering across his coat. “You used the Boba Fett mug – why would you use the Boba Fett mug for coffee?”

Ivy blinks and looks around, but nope, she’s still in that alternate universe. “Because…it’s a coffee mug?”

Apparently this is the wrong answer.

“This – this is not a coffee mug, Ivy!” Topher’s expression is one-half outraged professor defending his thesis against some inferior intellect and one-half little boy who just watched his balloon sail away over the roof of the local mall. “This is _Boba Fett_. This is a signed, original, limited-edition, heretofore mint-condition mug that I purchased when I was ten, after a blood-thirsty bidding war I might add. It’s a symbol of my childhood, Ivy, of my goals and my aspirations, it’s filled to the brim with Brink! Boba Fett is _not_ meant to be used for _coffee_!” If possible, he suddenly looks even more distraught. “Oh god – what did you do with the box it came in?”

“It’s safe and sound,” Ivy lies through a bright smile. She sends up a silent prayer that nobody’s emptied the trash in the kitchen. Coffee grounds don’t stain permanently, right? “Sorry about that, I’ll find another mug.”

“Never mind, I’ve lost my appetite now. Let me just get back to this crap imprint.” Topher sighs and drags his hand over his head until his hair’s more unruly than usual.

If she were forced at gunpoint, Ivy might grudgingly admit that he looks almost cute. _Almost_ being the key word, because she’s not sure she should admit to having a little crush on a boss with a Boba fetish.

“What’s crap about the imprint?” She half-expects him to shush her and send her off to buy screen-cleaner, but he gestures for her to come closer to his desk.

“I can’t get the right combinations,” he says, pulling up a series of graphs. “The client needs a trapeze artist who actually functions on a trapeze. I have templates for the athleticism and the strength and the balance, but it’s not adding up to allow the safety margin that DeWitt wants. Every time I tweak the recipe there’s still an unacceptable probability that Victor goes splat.”

Ivy squints at the graphs. “You need to add someone with meditation skills – no, hear me out,” she adds, plowing on quickly before he can interrupt. “Sure you need the strength and athleticism, but you need someone who can channel all that energy and keep their focus when they’re in a high-risk situation. Maybe combine your current template with an imprint of a psychiatrist or a classical musician or even a senior fire-fighter if you have one of those lying around? It’s just a thought,” she winds down with a shrug.

Topher’s looking at her strangely, and Ivy braces herself for the patented Brink eyeroll/scoff combination that usually accompanies her attempts at the espresso machine. She’s not prepared for the surprised smile that breaks over her boss’ face.

“Ivy, that’s – kind of brilliant, like why-didn’t-I-think-of-it level brilliant.” He looks at her with something that maybe, possibly, could contain a bit of admiration.

And Ivy’s not blushing, really, it’s just warm in here. “I – thanks, Topher. I’m glad you think it’ll work.”

“It’ll work fine, I just have to search for the right adjustments.” Topher turns back to the screen, firmly back in optimistic-creator mode. “Want to make this a joint project, Ivy?”

“Of course!” Ivy settles in the chair beside him, eager to dust off her degrees and get to work --

“Excellent – I need a cappuccino. Double up the vanilla this time, OK?”

\-- or maybe she’ll just go find Dominick and see what poison goes best with vanilla crystals. At this point she’s pretty sure she can bribe him with caffeine.


End file.
